


the skybox

by zade



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dyslexia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Prom, Sort Of, and solitary confinement, ex-con murphy, minor critiques of juvie, poet murphy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 03:23:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: She gives his hand a little squeeze, and he smiles more genuinely despite himself.  Her face falls into her Very Serious face.  “I asked Lexa to prom.  And she said, ‘I wouldn’t want to get in Bellamy’s way,’ which I thought everyone knew was just a stupid rumor, but apparently Lexa didn’t get the memo.”In her defense, it had been a very pervasive rumor.  Despite Clarke’s really unsubtle attempts at getting Lexa’s favor for going on two semesters, it seemed that Clarke’s dalliance with Finn the Guitarist, and the high school population’s inability to understand the word bisexual, had doomed Clarke to be presumed straight until graduation.Murphy nods in what he hopes is a sympathetic manner.  “And so you want me to…?”Clarke squeezes his hand again and suddenly he wonders if she’s trying to keep him from bolting.  “I need you to ask Bellamy to the prom.”--A dumb quick thing written (late) for Dyslexia Awareness Day and also about high school and prom and prison and poetry





	the skybox

**Author's Note:**

> thank u to the really amazing murphamy discord server <3 y'all are great
> 
> this fic deals with juvenile solitary confinement, which was in the news when I first thought this story up, and is majorly fucked!! so my boy Murphy is dealing with a lot in this, as well as being dyslexic (which I am not, but have known people/researched a little) but it's also about prom. high school, amirite?
> 
> idk im very tired this happened in 3 days and is unbeta'd

Clarke comes up to him while he is at his locker, trying to pack his backpack and leave before anyone tries to talk to him. He is not well liked, but enough unliked to constantly run the risk of harassment.

“Murphy,” she says warmly, standing directly in front of the door to his locker so he can’t close it and run.

“Griffin.” He looks at her overly friendly smile and frowns in response. “What can I do for you?”

She pushes a hair back behind her ear. She’s pretty in the way he distantly thinks many women are pretty. Aesthetic appreciation, maybe. “Prom is coming up.”

“And tomorrow is Thursday.” Clarke rolls her eyes and him and he grins. “Were we not stating the obvious?”

Clarke reaches out and grabs his hand fondly. She’s gotten much more with the touchy-feelys since she agreed to be his co-chair for the GSA, but he can’t say he really minds. Having someone as popular and nice and smart as Clarke choose to spend time with him is a sort of balm to high school’s general misery. 

She gives his hand a little squeeze, and he smiles more genuinely despite himself. Her face falls into her Very Serious face. “I asked Lexa to prom. And she said, ‘I wouldn’t want to get in Bellamy’s way,’ which I thought everyone knew was just a stupid rumor, but apparently Lexa didn’t get the memo.”

In her defense, it had been a very pervasive rumor. Despite Clarke’s really unsubtle attempts at getting Lexa’s favor for going on two semesters, it seemed that Clarke’s dalliance with Finn the Guitarist, and the high school population’s inability to understand the word bisexual, had doomed Clarke to be presumed straight until graduation.

Murphy nods in what he hopes is a sympathetic manner. “And so you want me to…?”

Clarke squeezes his hand again and suddenly he wonders if she’s trying to keep him from bolting. “I need you to ask Bellamy to the prom.”

He pulls his hand away from hers, burying his face in his locker and pointedly not looking at her. “No fucking—”

“Please, Murphy. It’s a win-win, really.”

Murphy finishes gathering his books, zips his backpack and turns back to her, scowling. “A) I am not going, b) in what universe is this win-win?—and c) I’m not going.”

She links their arms. “I get to take the girl of my dreams to prom. And you get to take the boy of yours. Win-win.”

He nods absently, because that’s the rub, really. Bellamy is the boy of his dreams. He’s smart and sarcastic and plays football and gets featured roles in the musicals and he showed up to GSA earlier in the year because he wanted to help end homophobia in sports and in their junior year English class he had said only insightful things while also looking really hot.

“Great!” Clarkes says exuberantly and Murphy realizes he missed something.

“What?” he asks. “Wait, I didn’t—”

“Thank you so much, Murphy, you’re a life saver, really.” She leads him towards her car. “You should ask him tomorrow during lunch. You both have it fifth period, right?”

“Yes, but—”

She opens the passenger door and herds him into it. He lets himself be herded because he knows better than to oppose Clarke, and also he doesn’t have bus fare today. He buckles his seatbelt while she all but skips around the car.

“So where are you taking me?” he asks, sighing, as she starts the car. 

Clarke flashes him a grin, blinking in exaggerated innocence at him. “To get you a tux, of course!”

He sighs again. “Of course.” They drive in silence for a few minutes, pop playing lowly from the car speakers and Clarke bopping along to it. “I can’t pay, you know. For a tux,” he clarifies.

And he can’t. Between rent and food and school supplies and saving for college, he has just enough money to splurge on the occasional Starbucks; not a tux. He had been emancipated upon exiting juvie at the age of sixteen. If he had known that a single poorly placed fire would have fucked his life so much—honestly, he probably would have set it anyway.

Clarke nods, unconcerned. “I know. I talked to my mom and since I’m making you go to prom, I’m going to pay for your rental. Or, my mom is, but I’m gonna pay her back.”

He huffs. “I don’t need your charity.”

Clarke pulls into a parking spot and punches him the shoulder, hard. “It’s not charity between friends, jackass. Now get inside and don’t harass the guy taking your measurements.”

It seems okay, in the tux shop with Clarke.

It seems less okay the next day. He picks up his cafeteria lunch, which is gross, but due to his financial situation, free. He finds Bellamy easily enough, sitting with a group of other jocks, in his letterman’s jacket no less, and Murphy is suddenly sure this is a joke. He walks slowly towards Bellamy and tries to stop his entire tray from shaking with his hands.

Clarke wouldn’t set him up to embarrass himself publically. Neither would Bellamy, really. But Murphy has watched a whole bunch of teen movies and he’s pretty sure everyone is about to laugh at him. Well, better now than at prom—he’d look terrible in pigs blood.

“Bellamy,” he says as he approaches the table.

Bellamy looks up at him and smiles, friendly and open. “Murphy. What can I do you for?” Some of the other members of his table continue talking, like this is a normal occurrence.

“I heard you were in the market for a prom date. Thought I’d volunteer.” Murphy makes eye contact with one of the other jocks and smirks. “No homo.”

Bellamy looks at him for a long moment, weighing his options. Murphy can’t seem to look away, staring at his face as he thinks and thinks and thinks. One of the jocks laughs—Atom, maybe?—and Murphy begins to flush, embarrassed and anxious and ashamed. 

Wells, who is seated at the table presumably because he likes someone else there, considering he dislikes Bellamy almost as much as he dislikes Murphy, says, “For the love of god, man, put him out of his misery.”

And then Bellamy says, “Yes.”

“Oh,” Murphy replies, and hopes he doesn’t have a dumb-fish look on his face. He had assumed Bellamy would say yes, and until right that very second he never wondered why he thought that. “Clarke said—she has a limo and we can—if you want, I mean—”

Bellamy keeps smiling. “That sounds great. I’ll text you later?”

Murphy nods, and it doesn’t occur to him until much later that he doesn’t know why Bellamy would have his phone number.

Murphy spends the rest of the day alternating between vivid daydreams of prom come true and overpowering anxiety. He can’t believe Bellamy said yes, really. He’s happy about it, sure, but he can’t believe that this is his real life. He doesn’t pay much attention in class, but that’s okay. All of his teachers email him his assignments as a rule—or as an accommodation, but he hates that word. Clarke meets him after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays—also an accommodation, but this one he’s less resentful of. She reads the assignments he couldn’t get audiobooks for to him, proofreads his papers, his poetry. Makes sure his letters and words end up in the order he intends them to.

He writes a lot of poetry, which is sort of new. Before prison, everyone thought he was just dumb, and didn’t waste time on trying to make sure he was learning or creating. He got headaches a lot, and could never focus on assignments, and when he was asked to read things aloud would usually insult his teacher so they’d forget to make him actually do it. But he had the very best of social workers in juvie and Vera had noticed the tendency for his letters to swap round, and had gotten him evaluated for dyslexia. She had helped him keep up with his studies so he could a year of high school, had helped him get out of juvie, and she was the one who had encouraged him to write poetry. It had been a surprisingly good outlet for him, and apparently he was good at it, because it’s kind of worked out so far. 

He knows they have his book in the school library, and is always distantly grateful that he chose to publish under just “John.” There’s enough attention on him from his past without encouraging more.

Clarke smiles when she sees him, sitting at their usual table in the library. “Murphy!” she says, standing to greet him. “Heard through the grapevine that everything went well today at lunch.” She winks at him, and just like that his stomach drops out.

Oh. She must have given Bellamy a heads up, asked him to say yes. That explains why Bellamy would have his number. What had he been on, thinking maybe Bellamy liked him back? He smiles, but something must show in his face because Clarke’s expression turns confused.

“Murphy?” She reaches out, but he moves away, doesn’t really want physical contact right now. “Is everything okay?”

Murphy shrugs. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? Come on, let’s get to work, princess, my history text book isn’t going to read itself.” Prom is ten days away. Murphy isn’t sure how he’s going to make it.

He works all weekend which is good, because otherwise he might have time to wallow.

Bellamy corners him in the hallway after school on Monday. “Hey Murphy, you got a second?”

Murphy nods, slams his locker shut and tries not to feel bitter. “What’s up?”

Bellamy smiles easily. “Just wanted to make sure everything was good for prom. Do you have a suit, because if not—”

“I have one,” he says, and then, for clarification, “Clarke’s renting me one.”

“Oh.” Bellamy covers his surprise easily. “Can I get you a boutonniere at least? Want to do right by my prom date.”

“You don’t have to.” Murphy would hate for Bellamy to feel beholden to him, especially because Bellamy’s just doing this as a favor, and not even as favor to Murphy.

“I’d like to,” Bellamy replies, earnest in the way he sometimes gets. “Matching ones, for the both of us?”

Murphy nods, because anything he says will sound ungrateful or dumb or both. He has GSA to get to, which is as good an excuse as any, but when he says so, Bellamy nods and follows him. Murphy wishes he wouldn’t, wishes he wasn’t trying to commit to the farce this much, because it almost makes it believable.

Bellamy stays for the whole meeting. He does a lot of listening, makes a few suggestions himself, and is all around a model club member, and it makes Murphy want to tear his eyes out.

After GSA, Bellamy stops him again before he walks out the door. “Let’s get coffee, before the weekend, yeah? Some day after school. Get to know each other better.”

Murphy wants to say no, but it’s probably a sign of how weak willed he is, that he gives in immediately, at once ready to buy into the idea that Bellamy genuinely cares for him, fake as it seems.

They go on Wednesday. Bellamy picks the coffee place, and insists on buying. Murphy is of two minds about it. On the one hand, he doesn't have the money to pay for things like this but on the other, the offer rankles especially since Bellamy is just playing along. He decides, as Bellamy hands him a hot cup of coffee, that he will at least enjoy himself—let himself pretend that Bellamy might like him back.

“So,” Bellamy says, sitting down across from him. “How have you been?” 

There is an awkwardness there, the past sitting heavily between them. They had never truly been close, Murphy knows that now, but he had been an indispensable part of Bellamy's middle school gang, and he had done everything Bellamy had asked of him, without question. Bellamy hadn’t told him to throw the match, but nothing would have changed if he had.

“You don't have to—”

“I want to know,” Bellamy says in a tone that brooks no argument. He takes a long sip of coffee. “I know I've seen you, but we haven't really talked.”

Murphy shifts uncomfortably. “I figured you were done with me.” It's not like it was a stretch. Murphy had hoped - no expected, truly expected, to be welcomed back into Bellamy’s friend group upon leaving prison, only to discover that Bellamy had reformed his life, and was not excited to see Murphy back.

“No,” Bellamy says, finally. “I was a fucking idiot. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you, but I'm glad you met Clarke.”

“Yeah,” Murphy admits, reluctantly. “She's been a good friend.”

“How did you two meet?”

He sounds vaguely jealous, which is probably Murphy projecting, but he figures fuck it, if he's letting himself believe Bellamy cares, he might as well believe this too. “She needed a service project, so the school paired her with me. She reads things to me, checks my work.” Bellamy looks vaguely confused so Murphy supplies, “She helps me with my dyslexia.”

Bellamy looks surprised, then nods thoughtfully. “I'm glad she's been helpful to you. Dyslexia explains a lot.” Murphy nods, takes a sip of coffee to cover how awkward he feels. Bellamy's expression turns playful. “You still watch those dumb cooking competitions?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy says but he's laughing. For a moment, they are both laughing, and Murphy wants nothing more than for this to be real. 

Bellamy sobers first. “I know it's not my place but I've been wondering…how did you get out so early?”

Murphy stills. It's exactly the kind of thing Murphy tries to avoid talking about with everyone, always, but he sighs, giving in. He doesn't meet Bellamy's gaze. “They kept me in solitary for too long, and my social worker reported it? I ended up getting my sentence commuted, and they change some rules around, so it doesn’t happen to other people, so that's good.”

Open shock blankets Bellamy's face, but below that is concern. “How long were you by yourself?”

Murphy's shrugs, busying his hands with moving his coffee around the table. “Most of the three years I was there? The warden thought I was a trouble maker.”

Bellamy's face turns, and it’s way more expressive than Murphy remembers Bellamy’s face to be. “Jesus, Murphy.” Stricken. He looks stricken. “Are you okay?”

Murphy summons and some swagger, grins. “Yeah. Gave me a lot of material for my poetry.”

Bellamy lights up. “You like poetry?” He pulls his shirt down from the collar, revealing a line of ink on his clavicle. It reads: i fall into the sky, and Murphy reads it like a punch to the gut. He knows those words into, intimately. The last lines to his poem, “the skybox,” are "your walls won't hold me/i fall into the sky." He had written it about his time in solitary, but there’s no way he can tell Bellamy that, now. “It’s from this amazing poetry book—the poet is our age, if you can believe it—and the line really stuck with me, you know?”

Murphy’s throat is almost too dry for him to speak. “What do you think it’s about?”

There’s a glimmer of wonder on Bellamy’s face, but it gets replaced by apprehension quickly. Murphy lets himself believe it’s because Bellamy is nervous about bringing up other people’s experiences in solitary confinement to him, and let himself feel a little warm about it. “It’s about the poet’s stay in prison, but I also read it as metaphor for being closeted. I related to it in those terms, anyway.”

Murphy hadn’t been thinking about that when he wrote it, because he can see how Bellamy could, and he likes that interpretation. They talk poetry for a while, and it’s so good that Murphy doesn’t think before agreeing when Bellamy asks to him to a movie on the weekend. As they leave the cafe, Bellamy pats him heavily on the shoulder, and when Murphy turns back towards him, Bellamy’s hand slides smoothly until it’s cradling his neck and jaw. Murphy’s pulse is going rabbit-fast, eyes wide, and red faced. 

“See you Saturday,” Bellamy says. Murphy thinks that Bellamy might actually kiss him, but then he drops his hand and walks around Murphy, and Murphy turns towards him, desperate to understand what just happened. Behind him, in plain view of Bellamy, are a gaggle of their classmates. 

Murphy hardens his expression into a sneer and turns away from them. Bellamy was probably just trying to sell the story, convince people he’s really not interested in Clarke. That’s probably what the movie is for too, and Murphy is torn between hurt and anger and sadness.

He drags himself to his shitty studio apartment, and listens to a book on tape for his English assignment. He has work in the evening, 7-2 at a local restaurant, which makes getting to school by 7:30 am a challenge, but Murphy has always done what needed to be done. 

The weekend comes too soon. He tries to muster excitement about seeing Bellamy, but when he gets to the theater, a group of Bellamy’s sport friends are conveniently there, no doubt to lend credence to their possible relationship. It hurts, but Murphy is used to that sort of thing, and allows himself to be drawn in by Bellamy’s smile, anyway.

He was always a sucker for Bellamy Blake.

Bellamy sits close to him, leans over to whisper things in his ear during the movie. If this was real, Murphy thinks he would love that sort of closeness, but it’s not, and so he hates it. The movie is a post-apocalyptic thing that Bellamy chose, but the people speak some made-up language and between that and the subtitles there are whole plot points that Murphy misses.

Bellamy hugs him when they exit the theater. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, smiling.

Murphy nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. One more day. Just one more day, and then all of this will be over.

He shows up early to Clarke’s on the day of prom, like she asked. Abby is at work at the hospital all day, so he helps Clarke do her hair (a skill left over from when he had a mother), and lets Clarke try and do something with his. Clarke does her own makeup, thankfully, but pressures Murphy into agreeing to some eyeliner, then helps him with his suit. Wearing it reminds him too much of his hearing, but he asked and Clarke said absolutely no jeans at prom.

Clarke looks beautiful, though, and every time he mentions Lexa she blushes. It almost makes all the pain he’s feeling worth it.

Bellamy shows up a little early, curls falling wild around his face, beaming, and looking slim and tall and model-like in his tux. “Murphy,” he says, sounding warm and fond, and Murphy melts. “You look…” he pauses, eyes raking over Murphy’s body before he settles on, “amazing.” He hands Murphy a clear plastic container with a light blue flower inside, matching the one in Bellamy’s buttonhole. “I thought it’d match your eyes,” Bellamy says softly.

It feels intimate, which Murphy reminds himself it’s not.

Murphy opens the container carefully, touched in some way he can’t articulate. It’s just a dumb flower, and he knew Bellamy was going to buy him one anyway. He offers the opened container back to Bellamy, who takes the boutonniere and places it on Murphy’s jacket, then adjusts Murphy’s collar. His slides his hands from Murphy’s shoulders up his neck to jaw, and Murphy is sure his face is bright red. He thinks Bellamy might kiss him, and his knees go weak. He thinks about pointing out that they don’t have an audience, but he desperately wants Bellamy’s hands on him.

“Huh,” Lexa says from behind Murphy. “Guess Clarke was telling the truth.”

Murphy feels his stomach sink. They _do_ have an audience, of course they do. Murphy seriously considers leaving, but he doesn’t want to ruin Clarke’s prom. He’s not entirely sure it would ruin anything, especially because she has her dream date. Maybe he’ll pretend to feel sick half way through.

Murphy steps out of the cradle of Bellamy’s hands and musters a tight smile to greet Lexa with. She honestly looks better than him in her all black tux which should make him upset but he’s too tired to feel it. When he turns back to Bellamy, Bellamy still looks sort of hurt, but he covers it with a smile, shaking his head. “Ready to go?” he asks, and they pile into the limo.

It’s noisy at prom. It’s been a year since he got out the skybox, but Murphy still is unused to crowds, to noise, and it makes his skin crawl. Bellamy fetches him a drink and a cookie, looking like a cat expecting to be praised for the bullshit it’s dragged home. Bellamy insists on dancing, because of course he does, so Murphy yields. They need to be seen, after all, to kill that rumor once and for all. Bellamy drags him into something upbeat, then the first slow dance, pressing their bodies close and spinning slowly. Bellamy smiles down at Murphy and that makes Murphy want to cry.

Murphy excuses himself to the bathroom, but instead goes outside, breathing heavily in the cool air and waiting for it to relax him. He needs to be somewhere else; if he goes back inside he might have a panic attack.

Clarke joins him a few minutes later, because of course she was paying attention to him. He’s sure it says something bad about him, that his friends can’t even enjoy prom because they have to spend their time watching out for him. “You and Bell seemed to be getting on.”

“Yeah,” Murphy says, but he can’t turn off his sarcasm. “Your plan worked out great. Lexa’s no longer confused. Congrats.”

Clarke looks puzzled, and maybe a little hurt. Another thing for him to feel guilty about: he keeps hurting his friends. “I thought you two were having fun. It seemed like it.”

“Oh, please.” Murphy can feel familiar rage bubbling up within him and tamps it down. “Your plan worked, why isn’t that enough? Why do you have to drag my feelings into it, too? Bellamy doesn’t like me, Bellamy has never liked me! My words, though—he likes my words. Got a skybox brand on his fucking body, but me? Nah. The only thing I’m good for is my words, and they’re fucking alphabet soup without your help. He doesn’t like me, because what is there to like, Clarke?”

“If he likes your words—”

Murphy’s all but spitting with anger. “If he likes my words, then he likes me on paper, likes me deliberate and edited. He wouldn’t even _be_ here if you hadn’t told him to say yes when I asked him!”

“I didn’t,” Clarke says, successfully removing the wind from his sails.

Murphy’s mind stalls. “You…what?”

Clarke has her pity face on, but Murphy can’t feel feelings about that yet because he’s numb with shock. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I knew he liked you, because we talk, but I didn’t ask you to ask him as a set up. He didn’t know, Murphy. And he still said yes.”

Murphy thinks he might cry. All his indignant anger is gone, because if Clarke didn’t ask him then there’s a chance that he actually genuinely likes Murphy. “Really?”

Clarke nods, smiling gently, then frowns. “What do you mean about the brand—does Bellamy have a tattoo?”

“I do,” Bellamy says, standing in the doorway. He’s backlit in a way that makes him look like he’s in a movie, and Murphy would be swooning if all the blood wasn’t rushing away from his face as he dies of shame. “Clarke, can you…?” He gestures behind him, back into prom.

Clarke nods quickly and, with a parting squeeze on Murphy’s shoulder, and walks back into their school building.

He steps forward, out of the doorway and into Murphy’s space. “We should talk.” Bellamy sounds decisive but doesn’t actually move to speak.

“I should have told you I wrote that poem,” Murphy blurts. 

Bellamy shakes his head. “No, I sort of get why you didn’t. But I think more importantly, you’ve spent the last two weeks thinking that I’ve been spending time with you to further some plan I made with Clarke and not because I want to spend time with you.”

They’re leaning up against the brick wall, and Murphy would prefer to be sitting, but he doesn’t trust himself not to get grass stains on his tux and he can’t afford that. “Can you blame me?” Murphy says finally. It doesn’t really say everything he wants to say, but it feels like a start.

Bellamy sighs. “No. I should have made more of an effort to get to know you again when you back from prison, and I didn’t, and once time has passed, I felt like it was too late to try. I was happy when you asked; I thought maybe that meant you understood why I hadn’t said anything, or that you had picked up on my attempts at flirting. I’m guessing no.”

Murphy turns to him, frowning. “What exactly did you do that could constitute flirting?”

Bellamy has the gall to look insulted. “I invited you to my last play. And our championship game! And I always defend you when you make a good point in class. And I went to GSA for like a whole month, but you kept ignoring me!”

Murphy faces him with incredulity. “I thought you were there for social justice reasons or whatever! And you didn’t make an effort to talk to me outside of those weird invites you sent _through your sister_ , so I figured you didn’t want me to talk to you!”

Bellamy holds his gaze for a few seconds before dropping his and shaking it, lamely. “No, you’re right. I fucked this up. I’m sorry.” He glances up shyly from under his curls and catches Murphy’s gaze as Murphy’s breath catches in his throat. “When I first read ‘the skybox’ I imagined that you had written it. I didn’t want you to have gone through anything like that, but the words reminded me of you, and I liked that.”

Murphy’s heart starts beating like he’s running, and for a second he’s tempting to. Just take off at a run and get the fuck out of this situation—except this is the exact situation he’d been daydreaming of and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a kiss out of this mess. He tries to sort through the mess of his mind and turns towards Bellamy. “You know,” Murphy says, and has to swallow the lump in his throat. “It’s rude to get someone’s work tattooed without asking the artist’s permission.”

Bellamy nods cautiously, which is good. Murphy doesn’t want to think Bellamy can read him that easily. “How do I make it up to you?”

Murphy looks around. There’s no one else outside, but there are evenly placed street lights and the grass outside the building is well lit. They can still hear the music from inside, and it transitions from a pop song that Murphy has heard too many nights at work to something he doesn’t know, but that’s slowdanceable. “Dance with me.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Is that it? We’ve already danced, Murphy.”

“I want you to dance with me when there aren’t people around to see.” Realization blossoms on Bellamy’s face and he nods. He reaches out a hand to straighten Murphy’s collar, then moves his hand slowly up until his thumb is caressing Murphy’s neck, which makes it much harder for Murphy to swallow because his dick is beginning to take interest. “Why do you always do that?” At Bellamy’s blank look he adds, “Touch my neck.”

Bellamy starts, withdraws his hand, but Murphy grabs it and slaps it back against his neck. “You’ve got a really nice neck,” Bellamy says, embarrassed, but he goes back to rubbing his thumb along Murphy’s pulse.

“Dance with me,” Murphy says again. He shudders, and it’s either because of the cold of because Bellamy is stepping in, placing his hand on Murphy’s hip and pulling him close. The hand on his jaw slides behind his neck, and Bellamy uses that to help move them closer.

“All those times…” Bellamy’s mouth is so close to Murphy’s ear that Murphy’s entire body erupts into goosebumps. “All those times I touched you, did you think it was an act?”

Murphy laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’m an idiot, okay?”

Bellamy shakes his head, and Murphy can only tell because he can feel Bellamy’s hair moving against his face. Bellamy pulls Murphy’s head in closer until Murphy’s face is buried in his shoulder. “Let me take you out again. For real, this time. Let me treat you.”

“You don’t have to do all that.”

Bellamy begins swaying. It’s a very strange mix of emotions for Murphy, because on the one hand the motion and the closeness are sort of soothing, but on the other Murphy is the worst combination of horny and in love that a high schooler can be and if they get much closer it’ll become obvious. “I’d like to. I have a lot to make up to you, and that’s not even counting the tattoo.”

“You could kiss me,” Murphy offers. “Repayment via kissing. If that’s a thing you would also like.”

They still. Both of Bellamy’s hands find their way to his neck, tilting his head up until they’re eye to eye. “Just to be clear: I’m not doing this because Clarke asked me to or because anyone is watching, or to repay you. I’m not doing this under duress, or because I feel guilty, or just because I know you want to,” he says, and then kisses Murphy.

It is definitely the first kiss Murphy has ever had, but clearly not so for Bellamy, but that’s okay because Bellamy is kissing him like it’s for a grade. He hold Murphy’ face in place and him with tongue and lips and Murphy thinks he might pass out. When he pulls away, Murphy makes a terrible, wounded noise and Bellamy laughs.

“Want to go back in?” Murphy wants nothing less than that, and it must show on his face, because Bellamy says, “No, you’re right, fuck that. Want to get waffles?” Murphy must indicate yes, somehow, because Bellamy gives him another brief kiss, then says, “Going to grab Lexa and Clarke, stay here okay?” He takes a few steps, then turn around, catching Murphy’s eyes. “I’m coming back, Murphy.”

Murphy nods, and sort of believes him.

They take the limo to the waffle house. The font on the menu is some stupid fancy script that fucks with Murphy’s reading, but Bellamy puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close, and whispers the entire menu to him. He’s loud enough that Murphy can hear it, but not so loud as to call attention to them, which is nice and thoughtful and sort of, Murphy thinks, romantic. Clarke is smiling at them with a sort dopey grin, and Murphy scowls.

Murphy cannot believe how much his life is exactly like a teen movie, only the kind where the stupid, gay main character gets the boy and not the kind where everyone embarrasses him at prom. He thinks, maybe he’s earned a happy ending, after everything he’s gone through. Bellamy smiles at him, and he falls into the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> im gabe racetrackthehiggins feel free to buy me a coffee or talk to me on tumblr or drown in feelings with me on the discord server


End file.
